


Don't Go Away

by MarrCartney



Series: The House with the Rose in the Window [1]
Category: No Fandom
Genre: Amnesia, Drinking, England (Country), Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Inspired by Music, Kissing, M/M, Original Fiction, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:07:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29340297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarrCartney/pseuds/MarrCartney
Summary: School reunions sound lame, until you meet the person you've been searching for.And he doesn't remember who you are.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Series: The House with the Rose in the Window [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2187081
Comments: 3
Kudos: 5





	Don't Go Away

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, this was just a little side-quest whilst I'm working on my main story. It's set in the same world. Caspar, one of the main characters in this, used to be quite an instrumental character in that but got written out. Still, I liked who he was so I wrote this work for him - Dusty is a character I made up very quickly.
> 
> I hope you enjoy! Mainly publishing this on here so my friends can see it. It's probably really bad, but the thing is, I actually like it better than my main story. Oh well. Here's hoping I get that done this year.
> 
> Also, I wrote this in like, one day and couldn't be bothered to edit, so yeah... sorry for any typos. 
> 
> Inspired by listening to:  
> \- _Don't Go Away_ \- Oasis  
> \- _The Boys of Summer_ \- Don Henley  
> \- _When We Were Young_ \- Adele
> 
> (Yes, I changed the title of this weeks after publication - oh, don't look at me like that)

Like most dissociated adults afraid to succumb to reality, Dusty spends his time at the bar. Sometimes surrounded by a few people, mostly on his own, he views life through the bottom of a glass most of the time. But tonight is one of the few nights where he isn’t here by choice.

The place is absolutely heaving. The doors are wide open, letting the sea breeze enter on its own accord, wafting through the moving bodies of figures. The place shimmers with colours and candlelight. The air reeks of old booze and regret. A massive banner hangs from one side of the bar to the other, reading in pink letters: _St. Agatha’s Class of ’07: 10 Years Reunion!_ Dusty tries to make himself oblivious to it all. He picks with his thumbnail at a stain on the bar, a sticky circle where somebody has left their beer too long.

‘Let me guess.’ Delia, the barmaid, approaches. ‘Margarita, on the rocks?’

He looks up and gives her a small smile. ‘No, just a Coca-Cola please.’

‘Damn. Not like you to miss out on a cocktail.’

‘I’d rather stay sober tonight.’

She rests her elbows on the bar, forcing him to look into her eyes so they’re on the same level. ‘I don’t understand you, Dusty.’

‘Why?’ He keeps picking at the stain on the bar, the same damn spot. _Out, I say_.

‘You come down here every night, hoping to lose yourself in a drink. You complain about your life and, most recently, how you didn’t want to come to your own school reunion. Yet here you are, on the very night. Not to forget that you want to stay sober, for the first time since I’ve known you. What’s up?’

He shrugs. ‘I’m… looking for someone.’

‘Oh.’ Delia raises her too-thin eyebrows. ‘An old friend?’

‘You could say that. Where’s my Coke?’

She tuts and dips down behind the counter, producing a glass bottle and slamming it down in front of his hands before marching away. ‘Hey! Aren’t you going to give me something to open it with?’ Delia doesn’t answer. Frustrated, he sighs and tries to peel the metal lid off by rubbing it against the corner of the bar.

‘Dustin! Dustin Perry!’ He turns around, excited at the sudden call of his name, but his heart sinks when he realises the voice belongs to a woman. She’s a round, fairly curvaceous women, with long blonde hair that sticks straight down her back and holds a brightly-coloured drink in her hand, red acrylics making a tapping noise against the class. ‘It’s me… Ava? Avaline Ridley? We were _best friends_ back in Year Nine.’

‘Yes, yes. Ava. I remember you.’ Dusty swallows. The _best friends_ thing was a white lie – he was more like a servant to her out of fear, after she’d taken his lunch from him behind the sports hall. He didn’t really want people to know he’d been robbed by the head of the maths team. ‘Please, call me Dusty. Dustin is a stupid name already.’

‘Well, _Dusty_ , how’ve you been? I haven’t seen you since the last day.’ She pouts and envelopes him in a hug that almost squeezes every bit of air from his lungs. Her red talons are digging into his shoulder, even through his shirt.

‘Oh, you know… just… about.’ He says, scratching at the nape of his neck. He can’t really say the truth: _I haven’t left my hometown in years and I’m destined for alcoholism by the time I’m thirty-five_. ‘I worked in an office for some gift company a while ago, so, yeah… just hanging around really. You?’

‘Oh, that sounds wonderful!’ No it doesn’t. ‘Well, I actually went to work an apprenticeship at CERN in Switzerland.’

‘Really?’ Dusty says. It’s incredible, but he can’t help feeling slightly inferior.

‘I know, it’s awesome, isn’t it? I never actually expected to get it, but then we got a letter in the mail…’ Her voice washes into the background as Dusty finally gets the top off his bottle, and sips the sweet, carbonated liquid. He glances around the room, regarding all the people he vaguely recognises. They’re now caterwauling along to some Elvis song, out of tune and out of time. It’s _Heartbreak Hotel_ , he recognises. _I get so lonely, I could die_ indeed.

‘Dusty? Dusty!’ A bunch of long fingernails are snapped in front of his face. Five minutes they’ve been reunited, and Ava already looks unimpressed. It’s just like old times. ‘Are you listening to me?’

‘Oh, I am. Just…’ His eyes glide around the room again, until they capture a man leaning against the jukebox. He’s got shoulder-length blonde hair, dirty blonde, hanging over his face. His freckled hands turn the knobs on the machine, searching, searching. Dusty’s heart skips and he has to grip the bar to make sure he doesn’t fall. ‘Is that…’

‘Caspar Anthonsson?’ Ava says, playing with a strand of her hair. ‘Yes, it is. Were you friends?’

‘Yes.’ Dusty nods. Sweat is gathering under his collar. All the years searching, and now he’s _here_ , back where it all began. ‘Yeah, we were friends.’

‘He was the captain of the football team. He was a star, went to Yale… Or was it Harvard? No, Yale. It’s a shame, really.’

He looks at her. ‘What is?’

‘Did you not hear?’

His blood is running cold. ‘No.’

‘Oh, awful, honestly.’ Ava says, waving her hand in the air. ‘He was out for a drive, late one night, when somebody came and hit him head-on. I think it was a drink-driver. But he was in a coma for months, and woke up with no memory of life before he was twenty-three.’

‘ _What_?!’

‘I know! It’s terrible. He married the nurse who took care of him in the hospital-’

‘I’m sorry.’ Dusty apologises, swigging the final dregs from his Coke before putting it abruptly on the bar. ‘I’ve got to go.’ Not caring what Ava says, he turns and marches his way to the jukebox, where Caspar is still shuffling his way through the contents. Dusty can hear his blood roaring in his ears. He has to say something. Swallowing his fear, he mumbles out of the corner of his mouth, ‘Tommy James and the Shondells.’

Caspar looks up. God, he looks exactly the same. There’s the perfect roundness of his Scandinavian eyes, the small curve of his nose, the collection of five freckles along his cheekbones, like stars. But there’s no recognition in his face, no sign of the smile that still has Dusty wrapped around it. His face doesn’t change as he says, quietly, ‘What?’

‘Oh, well…’ He points to the jukebox. ‘Tommy James and the Shondells. _I Think We’re Alone Now_.’ He hums the chorus of the song, to no avail. His heart is sinking. ‘It’s a good song. It’s not as popular as the Tiffany version, but still gets everyone on their feet.’ He looks down at the gluey pub floor. ‘You should play it.’

There’s a moment of silence, before Caspar does it – he cracks _that smile_. God! It’s no different to how Dusty remembers, right down to that little chip in his tooth from an accident on the pitch.

‘Well,’ He says – his voice is a little deeper than ten years ago, but there’s still the curves and points of the Scandinavian accent. ‘I have very little clue of what you’re on about, but I’ll trust what you say.’ He slots a twenty pence coin in and hits a button, the room being instantly filled with the pumping bassline. Three quarters of the room cheer in response. Dusty smiles at Caspar.

‘Told you so.’ He holds out a hand, and prays Caspar doesn’t see how he’s shaking. ‘Dustin Perry. Everybody calls me Dusty, though. We were…’ He catches himself. His voice is strained. ‘Friends, at school. Towards the end. I’ve been told you don’t remember anything, though.’

‘No.’ He shakes his head, Dusty’s heart is sinking once more. ‘I hear I’ve been to _Yale_ , but a car accident turned me into a bloody amnesiac, didn’t it?’ He sighs, but takes Dusty’s hand. His skin electrifies at the touch. ‘Caspar Anthonsson. Pleased to re-meet you, Dusty.’ _He said his name!_ ‘I’m here with my wife.’

Dusty blinks. ‘Your wife?’

‘Yes. Steph.’ He nods across the room, where a pretty brunette sits. She looks bored, with her head resting against her hand. ‘Her sister’s looking after our kids.’

‘You have kids?’

He nods. ‘Chance is my eldest. He’s two. Holly is three months.’

‘Oh, wow…’ Dusty says. He feels like he’s just been dealt multiple blows to the stomach. ‘Well, that’s lovely, isn’t it?’

‘They’re my world.’ Another blow. ‘Steph brought me down here to see if there was anybody who could tell me anything about me… you know, before it all went.’ He taps his temple.

‘And have you learned anything interesting?’

‘Not much, except I apparently through a _rad party_ ,’ He says the two words with finger quotations, ‘When we were fifteen, and that I scored the winning goal to a huge game in the final minute, whatever that means.’ Dusty nods. He remembers that game. He was the ball boy – he’d done it for the best view. Caspar looks back at his wife. ‘Well, I better get back to Steph. It was nice talking to you, Dusty.’ He grasps his shoulder and Dusty watches like a lost animal as Caspar weaves his way back through the crowd.

This can’t be him walking off again, not for another ten years – or maybe more. Not if Dusty can help it. He’s been given one chance to know Caspar, and that simply wasn’t enough. Now the second is here, and he won’t let it pass him by. He straightens up, and blurts, ‘I can help you find out more.’

The whole world stops for a moment. Caspar turns; eyes alight with piqued curiosity, and returns. ‘You can?’

Dusty nods; all his muscles are tensed. ‘I can.’ He sees the interest in Caspar’s face, and vows not to let it go. ‘I can show you where we used to go, where we used to meet up, the beach where we’d go on lunch breaks…’ He misses out some more important places. They can cross those bridges when they come to them.

Caspar looks back at Steph for a moment, and Dusty can practically see the cogs in his mind whirring. He’s going to say no. But then he turns and claps Dusty’s shoulder, and says with that lopsided, chipped smile: ‘Sold.’

///

‘So… that’s it?’

‘Yeah. Right there. Just to the right of that huge iron gate, underneath the lamp post? That’s where I waited for you. I would arrive at eight o’clock, and stick around until twenty past – or half past, if your bus was late. I only left when you were there.’

‘Wow.’ Caspar slumps back in his seat. ‘And that’s… that’s the football pitch I used to play on?’

‘The very one. You were number nine. You were a striker.’ Dusty beams, hoping it will hide his nostalgia. ‘I remember once, we were playing in the County Cup, against a team from Newquay. We were tying, two-all. And then, in the last minute, we got a penalty. You took it. Right from that corner.’ He points to an area of the pitch obscured by trees. ‘And we won! You were carried inside by the team.’ His hand moves over to the main school building. ‘There, with the slightly pointed roof? That’s where our assemblies used to be. You always used to tickle my back to make me laugh, especially when we were getting bollocked by the head teacher.’ He stops. ‘How does it feel?’

Caspar shrugs. ‘No offence, Dusty, but I feel… barely anything. I don’t remember any of this, at all. You could just be telling me the plot of your favourite book and I wouldn’t know any different.’

Dusty grimaces, but isn’t going to give up. He steps on the clutch and puts the car back into first. ‘We should move on. I think you’ll like this next place.’

‘Where?’

‘You’ll see.’ They move off again. The roof on Dusty’s convertible has been pulled down, allowing the wind to howl against them. The stars look down on them. Dusty returns their gazes, working out the constellations he can in order to try and lower his blood pressure: _Orion. Ursa Major. Cassiopeia_.

‘The beach.’ Caspar says. The car has begun to crawl along the sea front, now. The salty scent is stronger than ever as the tide is in, the waves biting at the promenade.

‘Yeah. In the summer, on our lunch breaks, we used to come here to eat. We saw seals here once, you and I.’

‘Seals?’ Caspar’s eyes widen slightly. ‘We saw seals? Were they close?’

‘A little bit. You took your phone out to take photos of them.’ He laughs. ‘The image was terrible. We tried to get closer, but some old guy yelled at us for _disturbing natural wildlife_.’

Caspar laughs, and Dusty smiles slightly. He wants to tell him, tell him everything, more than just bantering about seals and football goals. He wants things to be exactly how they used to. But he can’t. Because Caspar is a changed man, in far more ways than one.

‘Look at that, over there.’ Caspar says. He stands up a little, clinging to the car door. He’s gesturing towards a huge arrangement of lights sticking out into the English Channel, a gigantic neon fest. ‘A fairground.’

‘That’s where we went on our last day. You bought blue candy floss.’

Caspar looks at him with those cornflower-blue eyes. ‘You remember a lot of this, don’t you?’

‘It’s not like I could ever forget.’ Dusty replies, trying to sound nonchalant. He hopes Caspar doesn’t pick up anything suggestive in his tone. Thankfully, they’re at their destination now. Caspar parks up between two birch trees. ‘Come on. We’re almost there.’

They get out of the car and walk down the street, which smells of driftwood and warm days and bottomless drinks. Caspar follows him like an eager puppy. The houses are well-looked after here, manicured, all painted white and spelling magnificence. The gardens are neatly trimmed; one even has a tree loaded down with peaches.

‘These houses always remind me of _The Great Gatsby_.’ Dusty muses.

‘What’s _The Great Gatsby_?’ Caspar asks.

‘Don’t you remember? We studied it in… It’s a book about rich people in New York. This way.’ His skin is prickling. The previous places he’s taken Caspar have elicited no reaction, but he fears about these last two. These last two were everything. He counts the house numbers passing by in front of him, he knows it’s on the left side. _Twenty-seven, twenty-nine, thirty-one_ … ‘Here. House number thirty-three.’

They’ve stopped at a house that looks almost identical to the others, apart from a handful of details. For example, the garden is lined with rose bushes, and a conservatory has been stuck onto the front for an extension. But most notable is the window near the top of the house, below the pointed angle of the roof. It’s round, and contains the simple image of a red rose in the glass.

Caspar appears to be underwhelmed. ‘This your house?’

‘No, silly!’ Dusty says, and gently pats his companion on the shoulder, trying not to grip too tight. ‘It’s yours.’

The colour seems to drain from Caspar’s face. He marvels up at the house with those wondrous blue orbs. ‘This… is… my house? This is where I used to live?’

‘You’re right.’ Dusty bites his lip, regarding Caspar’s bewilderment. ‘But more importantly, it’s the place we met.’

Their eyes meet. ‘Really?’

‘Really. You see that window at the top, with the painted glass rose? That’s your old bedroom. I’d been riding my bike along here one day, and stopped to rest. You looked out and said hello, asking what I was doing. I said I was doing my paper round – I was earning the money to buy a ticket to the new _Harry Potter_ movie. It was _The Chamber of Secrets_. You joked that I should invite you along, and the rest is history.’

‘Wow…’ Caspar gapes. ‘How do you remember all this?’

‘I don’t know… I guess I just have a good memory. Or,’ He pauses, ‘You made a huge impression on me.’

Caspar smiles, staring back up at that small, stained glass window. Dusty feels a deep contentment here, a deep peace that he hasn’t felt for around for ten years – excluding the times when he’s been drunk. He hasn’t told Caspar everything, though. He’s neglected mention of the fact that he’s been here many times before, to reflect on that cold November morning when the boy with blonde hair first looked out, and the amount of times that he’s knocked on that door – it used to be green, but now it’s red. He hasn’t told him that it’s always given him some satisfaction to be here. It made them feel close after Caspar departed. Dusty was always glad to be by his house, even when he knew he wasn’t home.

‘This is amazing.’ Caspar says, bringing Dusty back to reality. He grabs his friend’s wrist, his bravado building up and taking his nervousness with it. ‘My whole life is in there and I don’t even know it.’

‘Come on.’ He hushes. ‘There’s one last place.’

He takes him down a few more blocks, until their feet start to ache and their movements grow slower. The buildings around them grow sparse, instead to be replaced by lush, evergreen nature as the ground begins to slope upwards. The moon is full above them, looking down on the sea which is now a glittering stretch behind.

‘Where’re we going?’ Caspar asks, wiping his face with his sleeve. Dusty can feel the tiredness growing in his friend, each step becoming more sluggish.

‘Just a little further…’ Dusty says, trying with all his might to keep his friend going. The underarms and lower back of his shirt are visibly damp, but he doesn’t give a damn. They’re almost there. They can’t stop now. But Caspar lets go.

‘Dusty, this is real nice, honest, but…’ He rubs his hands self-consciously. ‘Steph will be waiting for me. I’ve got to go.’

Dusty’s breath hitches. This is a moment he’s dreamt of; he can’t let reality snatch it away from him. He grabs his friend’s hand – shocks being sent through his body at the instinct – and looks into his eyes. ‘Caspar. This is the last place I’m taking you.’

‘I know, but it’s-’

‘Midnight. I’m aware.’ Dusty says, pulling at his bottom lip with his top teeth. ‘This is just… a place that’s really special to me. To us.’ His hand tightens on Caspar’s a little. ‘Please, if we’re only there for thirty seconds, just let me show you. I want you to see it.’

Caspar doesn’t reply for a few seconds, staring back the way they came, until he gives in. ‘Fine. But let’s make it quick.’

Dusty smiles, giving away a small fraction of the ravenous delight this gives him. They keep climbing together until they reach a small glade, rendered dark and damp by the ring of trees that block out all the light. A few logs have been laid on the ground, as benches. ‘Just a little further.’

‘Dusty-’ He’s about to protest further, but Dusty pulls back some of the greenery, and he stops.

The hill suddenly drops away in a landslide, giving way to a full view of the town that stretches for miles beneath them, backdropped by the beautiful glimmer of the sea. The stars glow slowly in the silvery night above streets of blue and gold. Each tiny little flicker is a bedroom window, a car’s headlights, the screen of somebody’s phone, a sign of a life. The cheerful hurdy-gurdy of the fairground and drone of engines blend with the wind into one medley of white noise, lamented by the sea’s song. In the very distance, boats are floating out of the harbour. Their white metal bellies heave against the waves.

‘Oh, my.’ Caspar says, rubbing at his chin. There’s something shining in his eye. ‘This is…’

‘This is your home, Caspar.’ Dusty places his hand comfortingly on his shoulder. ‘You don’t remember it, but this is where you grew up. I saw it all.’

Caspar swallows and stares out. ‘It’s beautiful.’ He says, his voice cracking. In his gorgeous blue eyes are miniscule reflections of each tiny little light across the town. Dusty steps back. He still sees it. He still sees the boy who used to sit on the rocks by the beach, his hair slicked back and his sunglasses on. The sun would brown his skin with its rays. He still sees the boy who he used to walk hand-in-hand with, real slow, smiling at everyone. He still looks like a movie, still sounds like a song.

Caspar doesn’t see it, but Dusty definitely does. He sees his everything. But he can never know that. He sinks down onto one of the horizontal logs – the weight makes him giddy.

‘Dusty?’ Caspar turns. At first his expression is sublimed, but becomes lined with concern after spotting Dusty sitting on his own, pale and with his head in his hands. ‘Are you okay?’

He rubs his arms. He can’t possibly know the truth. ‘Yeah, I’m fine.’

‘Dusty, I don’t know you very well, but I know that look. Steph does it all the time-’

‘Steph?’ The laugh chokes its way out of Dusty before he can stop it. ‘You mean _your wife_?’

His brows furrow. ‘What’s your problem?’

He sighs. His chest feels unbelievably heavy, the weight urging him to dispose of it. He buries his head in his hands. It better come out now. ‘…I haven’t been completely honest with you, Caspar.’

‘What?’ The disappointment in his voice is gutting.

Dusty stares off into the distance. ‘We weren’t friends, Caspar.’ He closes his eyes as he feels the other man quickly inch away from him on the log. Why does he feel like he’s about to be sick? He breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth. Better get this over with. ‘…I loved you. You were my boyfriend.’

There’s nothing but an ear-splitting silence as the world stops turning.

Caspar looks at Dusty for a moment, petrified, as if his hair has all turned to snakes. Then, slowly, he gets too his feet, shying away with concentrated horror in his eyes.

‘No,’ He murmurs, just a whisper, but then, louder. ‘No. _No._ You’re lying.’

‘I’m not.’ He stands up, too, tries to keep his voice level. He takes a step towards Caspar, who reacts as though he’s a bomb. ‘I loved you. And you loved me. We were together for _two years_.’

‘No.’

‘Caspar.’ He begs. Tears are running down his face now. ‘Please.’

‘Look, Dusty.’ He drags himself up to his full height. The anger radiates around them – the trees rustle with it. ‘I don’t know who you are, but I have a wife and two kids. I love them more than anything. Even if I loved you in a past life, I don’t remember it and I don’t love you now.’

Dusty makes a strangled noise at this. The words have hit him like a bullet, burrowing their way between his ribs and right towards his heart. He moves away, and looks at his former lover, whose face is now stone-cold and unforgiving. It’s almost impossible to believe that this is once the face that looked at him with such adoration, which made him feel loved. It’s the same face that he saw in the window with the rose on that autumn day so long ago.

He can’t be here. But before he goes, he has to speak. Say _something_. He’ll beat this horse until only _he_ is sure it’s dead.

‘Caspar.’ He says, blinking away the tears in his eyes. ‘I know you don’t remember. But I would do anything to help you do just that. We went to see almost every _Harry Potter_ movie together, and one time, I ran out of money for drinks, so you paid the extra. You met up with me every day before school, and after. You asked me out after a particularly hard P.E. lesson and I thought you were joking, but I said yes nonetheless, because I _loved you_. Dear God, I was smitten from the moment you looked out your rose window. But what happened? You got accepted to Yale, and I tried to be happy, but I was secretly crying every time I saw you walk away because I knew one day you wouldn’t come back. And that’s what happened when you moved overseas. You left me.’

Caspar’s face is blank now, devoid of any emotion. Dusty’s heart is crushed. He looks down the dark passage of the hill, back the way we came, and looks at his former love’s face one more time. ‘I know you don’t feel the same. I know this is hard and I’m dumb to put this all on you all of a sudden. But please. I just wanted to remind you. I need you to know this as well, so you can have at least a bit of these memories.’

He still doesn’t move. Broken, Dusty turns to go home, only to be stopped by the call of his name.

‘Dusty?’

He turns back. Caspar is still watching him. ‘Yes?’

‘I… left you?’

He nods bitterly. ‘You did, Caspar. You went to Yale and even if it broke me, I couldn’t be happier for you. And now you have a perfect family of your own. You have Steph who is the luckiest woman on earth, and Chance and Holly who will grow up with the most amazing dad. You’re incredible. I just wish you could remember it.’

‘But… I left you.’ Caspar says. His voice too is breaking. He puts his hands to the side of his face. His whole body is shaking. ‘Oh my god… I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. I never leave anyone behind. I’m so sorry.’ He’s sobbing now, erratic and out of control. Dusty feels his iron will to walk away melt, and rushes over to place a hand on the side of Caspar’s face.

‘Don’t say you’re sorry, Caspar. Don’t say anything.’

‘Why? But you loved me… and I loved you?’

‘Yes.’ He nods, wiping a tear from Caspar’s face. ‘You loved me. So, so much.’

‘Then why did I leave you?'

‘Because I let you go.’

Beat. ‘You… let me go?’

‘Yes. I let you go to Yale and achieve all those dreams of yours, because you deserve it. And I’ve gotten over that. I’ve gotten over watching you walk away. But there’s one thing I’ll never get over.’ He leans in, so their noses are touching. ‘ _I love you_ , Caspar Anthorsson. I loved you when I watched your car drive away to the airport. I loved you when I saw you playing football – everybody wanted you, but I relished in the fact I had you; I wanted to show you off. I loved you from the beginning, from the very moment I saw you in the house with the rose in the window. I knew it all along. I loved you. I still do. _I love you, I love you, I love you_.’

And just like that, clumsily, their lips met in the darkness. Their teeth click as their mouths remember the ways they should move together, but things have never felt so normal. Dusty kisses Caspar as if Yale never existed, as if no car crash ever happened, as if they were sixteen again. He kisses him as reverently as he did ten years ago, sitting with him on the pier on an evening not too different from this one, saying their final goodbyes.

They break away. Dusty leans his forehead against his long-lost love’s, worshipping those blue eyes and the foreign tones of his voice. ‘I missed you.’ He says breathlessly. ‘Promise you’ll come back?’

Caspar nods adamantly. ‘Where will you meet me?’

He thinks for a moment, but the answer is as clear as it’s always been.

‘The house with the rose in the window.’ 


End file.
